Darkness is a Harsh Term
by Lily Thistle
Summary: A serial killer has already killed three people. Anderson thinks it's because they all were wearing the same pyjamas. But when Sherlock disovers the real reason for the killings, he has to act fast to save the one person he cares about.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: New story. I have no idea where this is going.

* * *

_But you, you've gone too far this time_

_You have neither reason nor rhyme_

_With which to take this soul that is so rightfully mine_

- Mumford & Sons, Roll Away Your Stone

* * *

**Prologue: Darkness & Light**

Darkness. No moon. No stars. Just black, impenetrable darkness. I blink. Once. Twice. Suddenly a stabbing pain shoots through my head. This isn't good. I've no idea what's happening and why I'm feeling like this. I only know that I'm gonna be sick in a minute. But then the pain stops as abruptly as it had begun.

I rub my eyes. And then I actually manage to sit up. Very slowly. The pain doesn't come back. That's good. On the other hand, I really have to throw up now. Violently. And then there's just pain. Pain in my stomach. Pain in my throat. And the pain in my head is back as well.

Pain in my eyes. Light everywhere. Just white, hot, burning light. And amidst the light the shadow of a man. A tall, lean man. But it's impossible to recognise him.

"Sherlock?"


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Now, that was a quick update. But I don't know when I'll be able to write the next chapter, because I'm going away on holiday tomorrow. In a plane. So let's hope that my plane doesn't crash, because then we'll never know what happens next. Still, I'm gonna try and get some writing done while I'm away.

* * *

**Chapter 1: Black & White**

Lestrade has asked me to come along this time. It's only the third one, but they're already talking about a serial killer. The newspapers. And Anderson. Anderson with his talent to see links where there are none. And then overlooking the obvious links.

I see the links, other links, the _real_ links. That all the victims died in their pyjamas is not important, but Anderson doesn't shut up about it. That all three victims lived alone, that could be a link. That all three were shot, now, that _is_ a link! And I don't even have to wait for the analysis of the bullet to know that it was fired from the same gun as the first two.

Now, let's see. The man was killed with a shot through the head. There's not much blood, not enough considering the wound. So the murderer must have cleaned up, or at least he must have tried, because there's still some blood on the carpet and on the coffee table. Why would the murderer clean up, but make such a bad job out of it?

What's this? Two half-empty cups of tea are standing on the coffee table. One is smeared with a little bit of blood, the other is clean. It must be the murderer's – he must have wiped it so that the police would not be able to reconstruct his fingerprints. The victim obviously knew his killer. There are no signs of a forced entry. And anyway, why would you make a cup of tea for someone when you are suspecting something bad to happen? And … and … that's another link to the first two murders. There were also no signs of a forced entry. Interesting …

Also, this is quite annoying! He's acting like an amateur, with the cleaning and all. But those three weren't his first murders. The shot through the head … too professional. Still, if he's an assassin, I wouldn't hire him. But if he's not, then what is he? And why is he acquainted with his victims?

"And look! All the pyjamas were bought in the same store!" Anderson still doesn't shut up about those pyjamas.

"Now, that's brilliant, Anderson!" I say. "So, we're looking for a man who has something against people who wear hideous, striped pyjamas that were all bought in the same store."

Anderson shoots me a resentful look, but I ignore him.

"Got anything?" Lestrade asks.

"He was shot through the head, as you can see, he knew his killer, obviously, and he did nothing to prevent his fate," I answer quickly. "You should probably start treating these cases as linked. The most important thing at the moment is that you find out what connects these three men. But at the moment there's nothing you can do to catch the killer. He's no amateur, but he isn't very good at this either."

Lestrade is taking notes of everything I've just said while I kneel down next to the body on the floor. A 40-year-old man, a scar on his right arm, a small, red hole on his forehead, lying in a pool of his own blood, wearing black and white striped pyjamas: the third victim.

* * *

I jump when I hear Sherlock climbing the stairs, two at a time. I feel anger building up inside me. I jump out of my arm chair, ready to face him. When he opens the door, I just start shouting at him.

"You can't just say things like that and then disappear for the rest of the day!"

"Well, Lestrade summoned me, didn't he?" Sherlock retorts.

I'm very angry with Sherlock. So angry that I cross my arms and clench my fists. Who does he think he is?

"You can't just say that I should replace Tracy with a terrier," I say through gritted teeth. "She's my girlfriend, Sherlock, all right?"

But Sherlock isn't listening to me. He never listens to me. He's just standing there, taking off his coat and scarf, ignoring me. I can feel my face blush because I'm so very, very angry with him.

"Sherlock! Are you even listening to me?"

A non-committal answer: "Hmm."He isn't. He throws himself into his arm chair, puts his elbows on the armrests, folds his hands, and stares right through me.

"You know what?" I go on. "That's it! You're never having lunch with us again. Ever! You … you can't just say stuff like that in front of Tracy. Or better: don't say stuff like that at all, all right? I care about Tracy a lot. I don't want you to ruin this for me."

Sherlock looks at me, suddenly and unexpectedly. And when our eyes meet, my anger just vaporises. It's his eyes. It's just … they're full of concern and worry and … hurt? I'm not sure. Or rather, I don't understand it.

Instead of saying all the things I wanted to tell him (how ignorant he is and that he should call Tracy and apologise to her), I just ask: "Everything all right?"

"Sure," he answers, not breaking eye contact.

I mean, he's just sitting there, staring at me with his sort of greyish eyes (or whatever colour his eyes are … I'm not entirely sure about that). It's making me feel uncomfortable.

Then: "Do you want a cup of tea?"

Okay, something's definitely up. Sherlock never makes me tea. I'm not even sure he knows how to make tea, to be honest. I don't know what to say. Sherlock is acting very strangely lately.

It all started a few weeks back, when we were investigating a triple homicide. Sherlock often asks me to take a look at the corpses, because he doesn't want to work with Lestrade's team (and who can blame him, really?). But this time, he just ignored me. He had asked me, if I wanted to accompany him, but then he didn't talk to me. Or even look at me.

Then, three weeks ago, I got together with Tracy. Wonderful, charming, beautiful, kind Tracy. And suddenly Sherlock started talking to me again. And he did even more than that. He started complimenting me. Yes, true story. _Sherlock Holmes_ started complimenting _me_. All right, _complimenting_ might be an overstatement. He said the tea I had made him was nice. Twice.

And Tracy … my Tracy! He was nice to Tracy as well. Tracy isn't my first girlfriend since I've moved into 221B Baker Street. And Sherlock had never liked any of my girlfriends before. Sarah? Too ordinary. Mary? Too many spots. Barbara? Her nose was too big. Jeanette? Too boring.

And today … Sherlock, I could punch you, but you know that, don't you? Just saying I should replace Tracy with a terrier! You know, I don't even like dogs! They're smelly, they're loud, you have to walk them and all. Why now, Sherlock? Why do you have to insult Tracy and then leave?

I feel like I'm living together with a 14-year-old teenager. He ignores me, he's nice to me, he insults my girlfriend, he's trying to apologise. At least, I think that's what he's trying to do, with his cup of tea.

"John?" And now he's looking at me like a confused puppy who isn't sure if he's just performed the right trick. Great! Now I'm thinking about dogs again!

"Sorry, what?" I ask.

"Do you want a cup of tea?" Sherlock repeats patiently.

"Sure. Why not?"

And (would you believe it?) Sherlock really gets up, goes into the kitchen, and puts on the kettle. I realise that I'm still standing in the middle of the living room. Sit down, John!

Sherlock comes back, carrying two cups full of hot tea. He hands me mine, only looking at me out of the corner of his eyes. I take a sip. It's watery and … what's that?

"Sherlock, I don't take sugar!" I moan. Well, he tried, at least.

But Sherlock just smiles at me and doesn't reply.

* * *

I slowly walk back to my arm chair. But instead of sitting down, I remain standing for a few seconds.

Oh John! This isn't good!

* * *

Sherlock turns around fast and throws himself into his arm chair once more, miraculously not spilling his tea.

"Nice pyjamas," he says, before taking a sip as well.

I look down at my black and white striped pyjamas. "Thanks. I guess."


End file.
